


Need Against Need

by blue_spruce



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spruce/pseuds/blue_spruce
Summary: At the end of the hall there was another door, a bedroom door, Bill suddenly realized, and his breath caught. Holden opened it without hesitation, and Bill followed him across the threshold.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Need Against Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Franzeska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Franzeska/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy this story <3

It was a dark night, moon-lit, the air heavy with humidity and the scent of honeysuckle and rotting things. Bill looked at the door, feeling a sense of foreboding. Something seemed off about it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He walked up the steps and reached out a hand, and then the door opened.

“Holden?” He squinted. “What are you doing here?”

Holden raised his eyebrows. “I might ask you the same.” He turned around and walked inside. Bill followed him.

Inside, there was a long hallway. Bill stumbled slightly. The sense of foreboding grew. Bill had been in this exact house earlier in the day, and it had been entirely different. There had been stairs going up to the right, and a short hallway leading to a grim, ugly kitchen, and peeling dark brown and green wallpaper interspersed with cheap paneling. He had turned right and gone up the stairs and gagged at the deep iron smell of blood, so thick he could taste it, and pushed past two white-faced local cops to see – to see –

“I’m not surprised,” Holden said, and he stopped in the hallway suddenly enough that Bill nearly ran into him. He turned his head, just slightly, speaking over his shoulder. “I was expecting you.” There was something almost feminine in the curve of his neck, the way he looked down, his eyelashes dark against his cheek.

The words set off echoes in his mind. _I’m not surprised_ , he heard Holden say, earlier that very day, his face cold and expressionless as he looked at the woman tied to the blood-soaked bed. “You were expecting me,” Bill repeated, and blinked, and Holden was wearing a deep blue silky robe – had he been wearing that when he answered the door? He couldn’t think.

“Mm,” Holden agreed. “Come on, Bill.” He started walking again down the long, long hallway. It was dark, darker than it had been, with candles affixed to the walls every dozen paces or so, and the wallpaper looked like prison bars. At the end of the hall there was another door, a bedroom door, Bill suddenly realized, and his breath caught. Holden opened it without hesitation, and Bill followed him across the threshold.

The bedroom was the same, the same as the one that was supposed to be upstairs, but there had been no stairs. There was no woman. There was no smell of blood. But the room was laid out the same – the same large canopy bed, the same mirrored walnut wardrobe set against the wall. Holden turned and Bill saw that the dressing robe was tied loose around his body, open in a large V over his chest, open almost to his navel. Bill swallowed, and his hands clenched convulsively, and he realized he was holding a heavy coil of rope. “Well?” Holden said, and his face had that infuriating smirk, and Bill knew then that he would not leave this room until he had wiped that expression away.

He dropped the rope on the bed and sat on the white comforter, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back on his hands. He felt some satisfaction at the thought that his slacks were neatly ironed, still creased, that his white shirt and tie were the exactly correct outfit to be wearing at this moment. “Go on,” he said, putting a little impatience into his voice, letting Holden know that he wasn’t uncomfortable, wasn’t going to be intimidated one bit.

Holden looked at him, unmoving, as if he was waiting for something, and Bill nodded at him. “Go on,” he said again, and so Holden did, finally, reaching to untie the belt holding the dressing gown together. He shrugged it off his shoulders, a graceful little movement, and let it fall to a soft heap at his feet. He stood, waiting, and Bill felt the heat that had been growing in his belly suddenly catch flame. He stood up and went to Holden, just looking at him, looking at all of him, his stupid smirking face, his muscled chest, his cock standing half-erect between his thighs.

“It happened like this,” Holden said, and he was looking at the knife in Bill’s hand.

“It did not,” Bill said, and he stepped around Holden, looking, looking, his ass, the long lines of his back, the dark hair curling on his legs. “Get on the bed.”

What a fucking glorious sight. Holden lay spread-eagled, his skin glowing gold in the lamplight. He held still while Bill tied his wrists to the posts, then his ankles. “I’m telling you,” Holden said.

“Shut up,” Bill said. The knife was sitting on the bedside table, glittering. He looked at it. He looked at Holden.

Holden was fully aroused now, and Bill thought about leaning forward, taking him into his mouth, the idea a dark thrill hitting low in his gut. He wished he was naked and then realized his was, his hand slick already with something like oil. He reached down and stroked himself, with a quick, tight grasp that made his breath come faster. He watched Holden’s face. Holden was watching him, eyes fastened on Bill’s hand, and there was hunger there in his expression. He was biting his lower lip, breathing deeply, nostrils flaring. God, it was satisfying.

He touched himself and then suddenly he was touching Holden: his thigh first, the warm muscle there, running his hand over the solidness of it. Holden cursed at him and Bill laughed, low and almost mean. He dragged his fingernails over the pale skin of Holden’s lower abdomen, raising pink lines. He flicked his nipples with rough fingers, nosed at the dark hair in his armpit until Holden squirmed. Then he was straddling Holden and grinding down against him, thighs tensing, marveling at the feel of Holden’s hard cock flush against his own. How it felt to have Holden strapped to the bed, unable to move, at his mercy. Jesus. That was the best thing, better than anything. Holden’s vast intensity, his insane genius mind focused on this moment, focused on Bill –

Holden was talking, he was saying something about the knife, about _how it happened,_ and Bill was furious suddenly, wanted nothing more than to shut him up. He leaned forward and placed a hand over Holden’s mouth; he leaned forward and then his hands were on Holden’s throat, were holding his neck, squeezing, and he was careful to be gentle, careful of the windpipe that he had seen slashed open just that morning, careful of the carotids pulsing with blood. Holden’s voice had cut off, and he was almost gasping for air, breathing with more effort than normal, his face going red, and Bill could feel each inspiration under his hand, could see Holden’s chest rise and fall, the life in him --!

He kissed Holden then, suddenly, without warning, and Holden gasped into his mouth, his tongue warm and wet and his body completely at Bill’s mercy. The blessed silence of it, the lack of words, the way Holden just opened into it and the hard press of his dick against Bill’s own. Fuck, Bill thought, fuck me but we should do this more often.

There was a sudden loud beeping in his ear, and Bill woke up in a start to a dark room, his heart racing, and his wife asleep next to him in the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> "Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame." --Richard Siken


End file.
